


Lessons in Penance

by sock_bealady



Series: The Nature of Mercy [1]
Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Angst, Discipline, Gen, Gen Work, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-02
Updated: 2015-05-02
Packaged: 2018-03-26 19:16:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3861538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sock_bealady/pseuds/sock_bealady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ragnar needs Athelstan to obey him.  Athelstan needs the dead to forgive him.  A missing scene from 1.03.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lessons in Penance

Ragnar scarcely spoke to him on the journey back from Kattegat. Athelstan was almost glad. He had too much to grapple with--the deaths of his brothers, the promise of more raids against Northumbria, his own complicity in the violence to come. And Ragnar. He could not begin to sort out his feelings for his captor, his protector, his _master._

The northman gave no sign that he even noticed the monk tramping along behind him until they rounded the last bend in the road and reached the now-familiar farmhouse. The boy, Bjorn, met them and carried his father's weapons into the house. Athelstan swallowed his feelings of uncertainty and followed Ragnar around the back of the barn to store their sleeping rolls. After putting away his own blankets, Ragnar turned and looked at Athelstan for the first time since Kattegat. His eyes were sharp and piercing.

"Still here, I see."

Athelstan tried to force steadiness into his voice. "You sound disappointed."

That quick smile tugged at the other man's cheek. "Not at all. A little surprised, perhaps, but not disappointed."

"You shouldn't be surprised," he answered, "An ocean lies between me and my home. If I tried to run, I would not survive."

"I know it," Ragnar said softly, "And I knew that you knew it. I was merely starting to doubt whether you cared."

Athelstan swallowed hard. "I don't want to die."

Ragnar clasped his shoulder and took the bedroll from his hands. "Then don't." He turned to toss the blankets atop his own. "Of course," he said with his back turned, "If you mean to stay and live, there are certain realities that you must accept." He sounded regretful.

"I know that I am a slave," Athelstan answered, "The lowest of the low. What else is there to accept?"

"Perhaps 'understand' is a better word," Ragnar mused. His voice hardened a little. "I don't think you _understood_ how much danger you placed yourself in during our meeting with the earl--or how much you placed _me_ in."

Athelstan stared at his feet. He knew what Ragnar meant, but how could he apologize for trying to save his kin--for trying to spare other Northumbrian monks from the wrath of Ragnar Lothbrok? If he so much as blinked, he saw Lindisfarne behind his lids--saw his slaughtered brothers lying in heaps, from old Father Cuthbert to the boys who'd not yet taken vows.

"Perhaps you did know," Ragnar continued, "But simply did not care. Again, I question your will to live. Earl Haroldsson is the law here, and he does not care for manipulation or deception."

Athelstan's jaw tightened. "Who does, really?" The sharp-edged words left his lips before he could think better of them. He braced himself for Ragnar's anger, but the man merely sighed.

"It's true, I played a cruel trick on you to learn more about your land. I did what had to be done, priest. You'll find I do that a great deal. If you cannot cope, then you ought to try your luck against the wilderness."

Athelstan was silent for several long moments. Ragnar waited him out, his face expectant. "This raid you're planning," he said at last, "It is against my neighbors. Whomever you kill, their deaths will be on my head. I could not simply let that happen."

Ragnar cocked his head. "It is the deaths that trouble you? Not the desecration of your temples and the theft of their offerings?"

Startled, Athelstan looked up at him. "Of course it is the deaths that trouble me. I told you before, my God does not need gold."

Ragnar regarded him for a moment longer, his expression inscrutable. Then, he looked away. "It doesn't matter. You did no more than tell the truth. What others do with that truth is not your concern. And the fact remains: if you had convinced Haroldsson that I was lying, we might both be dead now."

Athelstan's lips pressed tight. He did not respond.

"You are my slave," Ragnar said a bit more firmly, "I am responsible for your safety and your conduct. I need you to learn what will not be tolerated." He paused, looking out across the barnyard. Then he met Athelstan's gaze. "Go over to that fence. Remove your robe and lean against the fencepost."

He knew he shouldn't have been, but Athelstan was surprised. He'd noticed, of course, the many bruises and stripes on his slain brothers in Kattegat, speaking of suffering before they'd died. But, somehow, he hadn't expected that of Ragnar. Perhaps he'd been fooled by the northman's quiet words and consistently gentle hands. Perhaps he merely wished it had _meant_ something when Ragnar had cut through his collar in the middle of town. Perhaps he should have fled into the woods to find a peaceful, if cold, death, but it was too late now.

As he picked his way, stiffly, across the barnyard, he scarcely noticed when Ragnar's son came barreling out of the house again, trailed, this time, by his mother. "Well?" the boy called out, "Are you going to tell me what happened in Kattegat, or are you just going to talk to that slave all day?"

Ragnar laughed. "Soon, Bjorn, don't be so impatient." He sobered a little. "First, go back into the house and get the strap from above the door."

"But _Father,_ I haven't even done anything!"

"It's not for you."

The child was silent for a moment. Athelstan had reached the indicated fence post. He tried to keep his hands steady as he removed his scapular.

"Oh."

"Yes, boy, _oh._ Go get the strap."

Bjorn trotted away and the next voice belonged to the woman. Lagertha. "Did the audience go that badly?"

"No," Ragnar answered calmly, "In fact, it went rather well, all things considered. But, Athelstan spoke out of turn and tried to undercut me in front of the Earl. Fortunately, he is a poor liar."

"Don't be too hard on him," Lagertha cautioned, "It was no more than you expected."

"I know."

Athelstan tugged his rough robe over his head. He wore only his loincloth beneath. He felt a flash of shame at being nearly naked before this heathen woman, but he forced it down. He put his hands on the fencepost and braced himself, hoping it would be over quickly.

He heard the boy's light footsteps but did not turn to see what he brought Ragnar.

"Thank you, Bjorn, now go do your chores."

"But . . ."

"Now."

"Fine!" the boy huffed.

As heavier footsteps approached him, Athelstan dropped his head and focused on breathing slowly and steadily. When a callused but gentle hand touched his shoulder, he all but jumped out of his skin.

"Easy," Ragnar murmured. Athelstan chanced a look at him, and Ragnar held his gaze. He saw neither hot anger nor icy wrath in the pagan's eyes. "I hate to do this," he said quietly, "Especially just now. But, I need you to learn to think before you speak." His hand shifted to clasp Athelstan's neck. "You have a kind heart. I know you only wanted to spare your people, but Haroldsson could have killed you for your falsehood. I cannot allow that. Do you understand?"

Ragnar was not speaking like he meant to beat him to death and leave him for crows to peck at. The flutter of fear in his chest quieted a little, and Athelstan nodded. His eyes fell on the strap in his master's hand. It was surprisingly unintimidating. He'd expected a whip of some sort, but this was just a broad piece of leather. Perhaps it had started its life as a horse's girth strap. Ragnar held it out.

"Have you ever been whipped before?"

Athelstan shook his head but felt, somehow, that more explanation was necessary. "The elder brothers used the rod. Canes. Sometimes a handful of birch twigs."

"And your parents?"

"I do not remember them. I was raised by the church."

Ragnar sighed. "Brace yourself with your arms," he said after a pause, "But do not lock your elbows. Give with the blows." Athelstan turned and started to duck his head once more, but Ragnar caught his chin. "Remember that I would no sooner harm you than one of my own children." Athelstan managed a small nod and turned away.

The first blow was lighter than he’d expected. It caught him across the shoulders with a loud _slap_ that sounded worse than it felt. In its wake, the skin smarted, but he didn’t feel the bone-deep throbbing that followed a strike with the cane. A second blow followed, then another a little lower. They were light but stinging at first, and Athelstan felt heat spread along with the pain from the base of his ribcage to his shoulders. He kept quiet, trying to give with the blows as Ragnar had ordered. He’d always been told that whipping was brutal and barbaric—not at all like the biblical rod of correction. Perhaps in that, as in so much else, the brothers had told him false.

As if he’d heard his thoughts, Ragnar began to strike harder. The next blow fell on already-smarting flesh and drew a gasp out of Athelstan. He swallowed and clenched his teeth, but the next one still forced a punch of breath out of him. The pain was real, now, and lingering—the heat and sting superficial but still unlike anything he’d experienced before. He couldn’t quite smother a small cry at the next blow, or the next. The heat was spreading; his skin was on fire.

It was no worse than he deserved.

He closed his eyes and saw again his brothers lying crumpled in the streets like abandoned grain sacks. But, this time, there were new, strange faces among the dead—men and women and children. It was a sign, he knew; God was showing him the dead yet to fall, the villagers who would be killed in the next raid. All of them slain. All because of him. Because he did not know any better than to trust a pagan with a friendly smile and a freely-flowing cask of ale.

His cries were growing louder. Tears were streaming down his face and his teeth were bared in anguish, but he scarcely noticed them. Ragnar suddenly paused as if he meant to stop, but Athelstan snarled and shook his head. His shoulders tightened as he braced himself. His elbows locked.

Ragnar laid down five more strokes, then stopped. In the silence that followed, Athelstan could hear only his own ragged breathing. His skin was burning, as if to inflict every lash a second time. Perhaps that was the work of God too. It still wasn’t enough.

He was so lost in his own self-loathing that he didn’t hear Ragnar’s approach. When the pagan laid a hand over the unmarked skin at the small of his back, Athelstan was too wrung out even to startle. Gently—so much more gently than he deserved—Ragnar turned him away from the fencepost and drew his head to rest on his broad shoulder. One strong arm wrapped around his waist. The other cradled the back of his head. Athelstan knew he shouldn’t feel comforted—knew he should hate this man nearly as much as he hated himself—but his hands crept up of their own volition to fist in Ragnar’s tunic as if he were a lifeline.

Ragnar held him for long moments while his breathing evened out. He squeezed the back of his neck. “Lindisfarne was a mess,” the pagan said at last, his voice quiet, “The men’s blood was too hot. We were in a strange land and could not admit to feeling fear. We’d never imagined a place that would store so much treasure and set no defenders. We thought . . . _I_ thought it must be a military encampment. By the time we realized differently, it was too late.” His fingers traced through Athelstan’s hair, just below his tonsure. “Raids are not always like that. There is no glory in killing the weak.” Athelstan squeezed his eyes shut and wished that he could just hate. Ragnar shifted back and gripped his shoulders. “Do you understand?”

He dropped his head and nodded.

Ragnar released him and reached for his robe where it hung from the fence. After feeling the thick wool for a moment, he shook his head. “This will be too rough on your back just now. And it is nowhere near warm enough. Come. We’ll find something more practical for you to wear.” His free hand found the stubble at the top of Athelstan’s head and rubbed lightly. “If you are ready to give it up, that is.”

Athelstan nodded miserably. He hardly needed robes to set him apart here. And he was in no danger of forgetting who and what he was.

“Good.” Ragnar gripped his shoulder and turned him toward the house. “We’ll get you dressed and then we can talk a while. There is much you must teach me.”

Athelstan’s heart sank. Of course he wasn’t done interrogating him. Of course he wouldn’t stop until he’d wrung every damning detail out of him. “As you wish, master.”

“Good.” Ragnar watched him with soft eyes. “Because I _wish_ to learn your words. English. I have only a few weeks to learn the words for ‘put down your weapons’ and ‘don’t be afraid’ and ‘we will not hurt you if you don’t resist.’ And I think you are the man to teach me.” Athelstan looked at Ragnar sharply. His throat caught and he was at a loss for words. Ragnar seemed to understand. He squeezed his neck. “Your guilt will always be there for you to wallow in, priest,” he said softly, “But it’s better to do something about it.”

The elder brothers used to say that all wisdom came from the church. They were wrong.

_fin_

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Reviews and concrit are welcomed.


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